The Hadassah Covenant

by Robert Holdstock

  There would always have been hounds, wherever there was fire and the presence of men, waiting with the shedding of blood on their minds. The element of surprise, second nature to Jason, did not feature in the thinking of the warrior castes of Gallia and Alba.

  ‘There is something wrong,’ Urtha said again. ‘We should wait until those effigies have finished burning, then row fast through the mouth and into the river. I have a bad feeling about this.’

  Jason was still contemplating Urtha’s suggestion when Niiv whispered in my ear, ‘Ask them why they’re struggling. Tell them to stop the fight.’

  ‘They’re effigies in wood. Talking to trees is not a speciality of mine.’

  ‘But not beyond your ability,’ the devious Niiv whispered, quickly adding, ‘But were they built by man or charm?’ I sensed the point she was making. There was something about the sheer size and ferocious combustion of these giants that pointed away from the mere sacrificial. I had seen such structures burned before, and they quickly exhausted the wood and animal fat, dulling down to embers, which might glow for a season but without any real fire. These figures had been lighting the night sky for all of our approach.

  I stared hard at the fire then passed through the flames and entered the wooden skulls of these embracing figures. The raging hearts of birds and the terror of rams made the place stink of fear; most creatures were already dead; a raven was tethered, calmly waiting for its passing. Crows screeched around the hollows as tongues of flame licked for them.

  I came back. I had found no sign of charm, save, perhaps, for that quietly watching, tethered raven. And the pure size of these giants, vaster than any clan-made effigy that I had seen before.

  Jason had called Cucallos to the prow; this was the man’s land, and silent though he was, Jason had soon discovered he had the sight of a hawk; ‘far-seeing’, the keltoi called it. His cousin Borovos had a similar talent to do with hearing. At once Cucallos confirmed what should have been obvious: that the falling fires were burning carcasses. He also saw crouched figures some way up the river, beyond the giants. They were by the water’s edge, quite motionless. Cucallos was sure they were by the landing stage, close to the village and high-walled stronghold which was his home.

  Urtha was still inclined to wait, despite his concerns and curiosity as to what might be happening further along the river. He felt a sense of dread, he explained, and of terrible danger. It would be wise to wait. Manandoun and Cathabach agreed. They too felt they were being warned away.

  Jason was in no doubt that this was exactly the intended effect of this monstrous display, and he quickly made the decision:

  ‘Lower sail, lower mast, get ready at the oars! Remember the clashing rocks, Merlin? We raced through those, didn’t we? With no more than a dove-tail clipped!’

  ‘You had a helping hand, I seem to remember.’

  ‘Did we?’ Jason challenged with half a smile.

  ‘Hera herself summoned help to hold the rocks apart.’

  ‘Or we dreamed she did! But it was oar-strength and courage that got us through the danger and on to that black ocean! This is just a night roast. Tairon, take the drum … a steady beat, then a fast one. Niiv, Elkavar, stand by with blankets to smother flames. Ullanna, prepare to treat burns on the arms. The rest of you, to your benches.’

  We took up our oars and the beat began. As the mast was lowered the oar-rhythm was struck above the waves, then the blades dipped and Argo moved across the ocean. Pragmatic Jason found a boat hook, held it ready: ‘I’ll hook us a roast that will last this crew for seven days!’

  Surging forward, Argo crested the waves, then cut more strongly. The drum rhythm pounded faster, oars dipping, Jason urging, the arch of fire rising over us, flame and burning beasts falling like thunderbolts. A ram struck the deck and Niiv quickly smothered it. Burning wood showered us and the argonauts set up a noisy howl, a protest at their scorching, but they kept heaving on the ash shafts and we passed below the burning giants with the speed of a swallow.

  A great flaring carcass plunged into the sea to our side, a bull of enormous proportion. Roast flesh and fat was a welcome scent to men half starved and sick of fish. Jason swept the boat hook over the side, caught the bull below the jaw and shouted to me for help. We dragged the beast half out of the water to reduce the drag, then held firm until we were past danger.

  Rubobostes added a third pair of hands and we pulled our supper into the ship, lowering it into the hold away from his restless horse, which was not happy with the smell of burning but which had remained secure in its harnessing.

  The bull, I noticed, had discs of bronze sewn through its hide. Its throat was cut and its flanks were impaled with the burned shafts of arrows. It was one of the biggest of its breed that I had ever seen, and had almost certainly been both sacred and sacrificed.

  Urtha agreed with me, then added, ‘But this is not the work of the Coritani.’

  Jason was also staring at the smouldering bull, at the blackened bronze. ‘I’ve seen this sort of thing in my own land,’ he said in a strange voice.

  He let the thought fade away as Argo moved with the stroke and left this fiery gate behind.

  Not long after, we came to the mooring place where Cucallos had seen the crouched figures. The bank had been cleared at this point to make a landing, a wooden jetty stretching out into the river, and shallow-drafted Argo could tie up against it allowing us easy access to the shore. The only boats to be seen here were three broken and rotting hulks among the reeds. A high palisade kept the forest at bay around this small and muddy haven, but its gates were now open to reveal a wide track leading inland, to where the tall thatched roofs of a village could be glimpsed.

  The figures made an eerie sight, five at the river’s edge, down on one knee, spears held forward, shields raised against chests. Every detail of face, beard, armour and clothing was clear to the eye, but these were oak effigies of men, stained dark and already blooming in patches with green moss and ivy.

  One was shown wearing the ornate helmet of a chief, its crest carved in the shape of a small hawk, its wings spread. When Cucallos saw this one he gasped with shock and distress. He was staring at an image of his father.

  Elkavar called to us. He had found more kneeling statues up against the palisade. Tairon, who had passed cautiously through the gate, came back to report that, ‘They are everywhere. I count twenty in the trees, all different. It’s as if a whole army had been turned to wood.’

  He added, ‘A funny thing: if it was not for their clothes, they might almost be Danaans, from Jason’s land. They remind me of Danaans.’

  Cucallos and Borovos immediately returned to Argo and put on their colourful battle dress, keening their swords and selecting light throwing javelins. They came quickly back to land, followed by Manandoun, also armoured, and Tairon, whose dark eyes glittered from his face-clinging bronze helmet. Borovos tossed me a javelin. ‘Come too, will you, Merlin?’

  We ran quickly through the gates and along the forest track. Silent eyes watched us from the undergrowth, as Tairon had discovered, and at one moment Cucallos again stopped and sighed in bewilderment. The youthful features of his brother watched him from below its horse-crested helmet. These statues, too, like those at the shore, were down on one knee, spear and shield held at the ready.

  It was clear to me that these strange carvings had a great significance for Cucallos and Borovos. I’d seen that each man had streaked his face with a red dye, and imagined this was a sign of mourning. They’d intuited what they were going to discover.

  The village sprawled out before us, silent, not even the grunt of a pig disturbing the stillness. Beyond it the land rose towards the high banks and heavy walls of the fort on the hill where Vortingoros held court. There was no sparkle of metal from those walls, however, no flutter of banners, no wild galloping of horsemen along the winding road that came down from its massive gates to the river.

  We divided into three groups. Tairon and myself explor
ed the deserted village, while, with Rubobostes’ horse slightly lame after the crossing, Borovos and Manandoun made the long run to the hill. Cucallos went alone, deeper into the forest, to search the oak groves and the rock sanctuary of Maganodons, the god to whom this tribe turned for protection.

  The houses had become rat’s nests. They had been abandoned at least a month ago, though there was no sign of pillage or destruction. Wildcats and wolves had probably taken the chickens, and there were signs that pigs had escaped their pens and were no doubt foraging in the woods. There was no armour or weaponry to be seen, but hoes, spades and ploughshares were scattered around.

  Tairon and I returned to the jetty to wait for the others. Jason was impatient to row on, to get to Urtha’s land. We were now heading away from the warm south where Orgetorix was to be found, and Jason hated delay.

  Urtha was impatient too. I found him in a brooding, anxious frame of mind, wandering through the woods, close to the river.

  ‘There is something very out of place here, Merlin. Not just these strange statues. I almost dread to say the word. I’ll know for certain when I get back to my own hill.’

  He was staring at one of the mossy effigies, this one of an older man, long-bearded, brooding-eyed, the jaws of the wood torque around his neck carved in the shape of snarling wolves. ‘I knew this man well,’ he said. ‘He fostered me for seven years. But is this him? Or the shell that now contains his ghost? Or just a memory of a man who has been taken from the world? This place has been deserted. But what sort of energy does it take to carve an image of each man who has gone? Too much for the men themselves. There is only one thing that can have caused this.’

  He refused to say more. He seemed almost terrified by what he was thinking. And for the moment at least, I did not see exactly what was there before my eyes. I left him to his business.

  Borovos and Manandoun returned later in the day. The fortress was deserted too, no sign of life, no sign of violence, just empty houses and an empty royal hall, still laid out with what looked to have been a feast for a large party, though the food had long since been scavenged.

  Cucallos didn’t return from the groves, however, and as dusk grew deeper so Urtha’s spirits fell lower. He was now desperate to get to his own land. Hot-tempered Borovos became almost frenzied with concern, and it was all Jason could do to keep him from running after his friend and cousin. We sounded the horn and Urtha called in his war-voice, a terrifying sound that alarmed Ruvio, grazing on the bank, more than our icy and violent departure from Pohjola. There was no answering call or cry and suddenly, when night had fallen, Borovos struck a torch and went ashore.

  ‘I have to find him. I have to know what’s happened here. Can you wait a while longer?’

  ‘Until dawn,’ Jason agreed. ‘After that, we’ll strike up river. But we’ll stop on the way back in a few days and call for you again.’

  Borovos nodded his thanks, then turned and trotted through the gate, a forlorn figure in his cousin’s cowled cloak, disappearing into the gloom.

  He had not returned by sunrise. Jason blew the horn five times, five long blasts separated by long silences. When no sound came back, when there was still no sign of the two men after the fifth blast, we hauled up the stone anchor, cast off from the jetty and rowed on in silence towards our destination.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Earthworks

  A tight bend in the river, flanked on each bank by rows of tall, grey stones painted with Sun Wheels, labyrinthine spirals and the images of lean, leaping horses, marked the beginning of Urtha’s tribal land in the territory of the Cornovidi. Willows crowded the water’s edge for a while, then the stream widened and became shallow. Argo dragged slightly in the weeds. Urtha urged us on, searching the woodland around us for any sign of life. There was an uncanny silence in this early summer, and a growing sense of apprehension among the crew.

  Another bend, then Tairon, on the steering oar, pointed ahead of us in surprise. We turned on our benches to see the looming shape of ‘Brigga’s Oak’, standing high above the drooping willows, hung with ragged cloaks and rusting iron, old swords and broken shields, slung from the branches in offering to the river. The woodland opened beside it, showing the road inland. The blackened, burned remains of a landing stage were half submerged in the water. On the bank, two magnificent mastiffs stood by the charred timbers, watching our approach in silence.

  Then one began to bark, the other joining in, a tremendous row, teeth bared, eyes wide.

  ‘Maglerd! Gelard!’ Urtha cried. ‘My hounds. My beautiful hounds! What’s happened to you?’

  We up-oared and dropped anchor and Tairon expertly used the steering board to turn the prow into the shore, catching it on the gravel bed. The landing ramp was dropped, just short of the bank, and Urtha crossed it, wading ashore. The dogs came at him, snarling in fury, the larger bowling him over and trying to reach his neck. Urtha was shouting the same name over and over—‘Maglerd! Maglerd!’ The muzzle drew back; the creature stood astride the fallen man, staring down at him; its companion growled, dropping to a low crouch, sneaking forward from the side.

  Again the name, gentler now, and Urtha reached out a hand to touch the chin of the maddened hound. The beast drew back, crouching like its companion. Urtha slowly stood, holding his left arm where the teeth had broken skin. He leaned down, reaching out, and the two dogs went wild again, running at him then shrinking back, heads low, their voices more of a whine. After a while the bigger came to its master, let him pat its flanks.

  I could hear Urtha whispering, ‘What is it? Gelard … Maglerd … What have you done? Why are you behaving like this? Who gave you these scars? Where are my other fine hounds?’

  Then he called to Manandoun and Cathabach, and to me. I followed the men to the shore. One of them tossed Urtha’s pack to him, then they started to put on their battle dress.

  Urtha beckoned me over and I approached the panting hounds carefully. ‘Look at this,’ he said, lifting the black fur on Maglerd’s back. I saw terrible scars.

  ‘This is sword, and this too. This is a spear. And look…’ he touched the crusted stub of an arrow shaft in the dog’s haunch. ‘The other is the same. They put up a good fight; but who were they fighting?’ He rose to his feet, then looked at me with a young man’s dread of what he might discover. ‘And what have I lost?’

  ‘We’d better go and find out.’

  ‘But arm yourself, Merlin. Take a spear.’ I noticed that his hands were shaking. His mouth, below his heavy moustache, had gone quite dry. I could hear the fear in his voice.

  Now he stripped off his shirt and pinned his short, grey cloak at his bare right shoulder, leaving his sword arm free. He drew a bronze torque from his pack and squeezed it round his neck, the two hound’s-heads facing each other across his throat. He hung his scabbard round his neck, the blade swiftly sharpened. His men had dressed in the same fashion. Then each of them in turn went to the river, scooped up a little mud and smeared one side of their faces. As they did this, so they whispered words to the water.

  This ritual complete, we left Rubobostes, Tairon, Michovar and his men and the Cymbrii to guard Argo, since the ship was a prize and Jason was distrustful of the apparent ‘silence’ all around. The rest of us took our weapons and followed the broad track through the woodland until we emerged on to a thin strip of open land, staring across the distance at the stark rise of the vast hill fortification that was Urtha’s home and seat of his tribal kingdom.

  Enormous, steep embankments wound around the hill, high palisade walls of dark oak rising rank upon rank to the highest wall of all, where tall watch-towers seemed to drift against the clouds. There were five gates along the winding approach between the earthen banks, the first capped by twin bull skulls, the second with the interlocking antlers of fifteen-summer stags, the third with wolves leering from their bones, the fourth with human skulls grinning from hollows carved from elmwood columns, the fifth with the long-bones of two horses, tied in bu
ndles, wrapped in horse-hide and topped with the red-painted skulls of Urtha’s favourite war-steeds. They had pulled his chariot in raids and carried his children in fun. On their deaths, in combat against Nervii raiders from across the sea, Urtha had elevated them to the highest rank of totem in his clan.

  Long before we had reached this final gate, we knew the fortress had been pillaged and abandoned. It was silent, clearly deserted, and two of the gate-towers had been burned. There were no cattle or sheep grazing between the banks, nor dogs chasing them. And on the clear air there was the taint of corrupted flesh. The wind that gusted between the earthworks, as we ascended the steep road, seemed to breathe at us from the grave.

  A while later, Urtha and his uthiin stood among the ruins of their lives.

  Manandoun shouted with anger as he emerged from the uthiin’s long hall, where he and Cathabach, unmarried men, were stationed.

  ‘No weapons, no corpses! Were they even here?’

  But there had been slaughter. We all found the grim traces as we searched the streets and houses, the stables and forges. We found remains scattered everywhere, even in ditches near the western gate, where the hill dropped towards the deeper, forested valleys that led towards forbidden lands.

  And there were the bodies of several hounds, two of Urtha’s among them, their shrinking maws still caked in blood, but killed by spears. They lay near the main gate, crow-pecked and stinking. They made a dreadful sight.

  The worst sight was to come. Urtha finally entered the king’s hall, his own home, and after a long while called for me. I followed him into the long, gloomy house. It, too, had been ransacked, little remaining that hadn’t been smashed, woollen hangings ripped, jars and vessels spilled and broken. The air was putrid with corruption.

  In a stream of light, where the wall had been broken through, Urtha was crouching over the body of a mastiff.